The Five
by Axemili
Summary: An Elseworlds story. In the year 2001, four men are brought together by a series of assassinations. The 5th is the assassin himself...Heero Yuy. PS I brought the stroy back to life, mainly because I'm nearly finished the story.
1. Default Chapter

1998:  
  
The light blue Corvette ripped through the countryside of Canada, easily hitting 60.  
Trees, mere meters away, and mountains in the distance zipped by, as its two occupants grinned dumbly.  
Quatre Raberba Winner craned his neck to the right of him, drinking in a quick glance at his newlywed wife. The stunning brunette beside him grinned back, her silky brown hair flapping clumsily behind her.  
Smiling at his good luck, Winner's eyes returned to the road, a hand brushing a long lock of blonde hair from his eyes.   
A corner neared, and Quatre eased back on the speed, taking the turn with ease.  
An overturned car suddenly loomed in front of the convertible, and, with a frown, Quatre pulled hard to the right, slamming down on the brakes as he did so.  
The squealing of tires, and the smell of burning rubber found its way to the newlyweds, as Winner grimaced, the Corvette nearly overturning itself.  
A look of worry replaced Quatre's handsome face, as he quickly stepped from the car, followed by his wife.  
Agent Claire Luck, of Interpol, frowned, as her hand snaked its way into the leather purse, her hand closing around the checkered grip of the Colt Commander. Seven rounds of 230-grain bullets. It would be enough to stop most threats. As her husband rushed to the door, Luck shook her head. She was still a rookie. The gut feelings were probably just a bad stomachache. Still, though. After one shooting, she was beginning to trust her gut instincts.  
Against her better judgment, Luck's hand left the grip of her weapon, as she followed her husband towards the door of the car.  
A blast suddenly filled the peace of the wilderness, as a bullet sped from the side of the road. Quatre bucked, stumbling back, and falling heavily to the ground.  
"No." Murmured Luck weakly, her hand again closing around the grip of the Colt Commander. "NO!"  
  
Heero Yuy stared coldly as the blond man fell from the car, a hand viciously batting away a fly.  
He had missed.  
The weapon held in his hands, a Heckler & Koch PSG-1, was a powerful weapon. 47.56 inches of cold, hard, 7.62mm spitting steel. If the bullet had impacted head on, Winner wouldn't have a face. He wouldn't have much of a head. The bullet had only grazed his face.  
A movement to Yuy's left brought him rolling away from his current position, the PSG-1 swinging towards this new threat.  
A single .45 bullet smashed into the dirt where Yuy had lay a mere second ago, followed by another, which smashed into the Polygonal barrel of the sniper rifle.  
Heero glanced coldly at the ruined weapon, his hand already un-holstering the Heckler & Koch USP9 Compact.  
Another bullet imbedded itself within a tree, the wooden splinters coating themselves upon the assassin.  
The Japanese killer returned fire, a pair of 9mm bullets burning through the air.  
Luck dropped quickly to the ground, as the two 124-grain hollowpoints ripped through the air, right above the Interpol agent's head.  
A figure rose quickly from the brush, the silhouette of a pistol clear in his hands.  
He stayed low, darting with amazing speed across the open road, as Luck's bullets smashed into the concrete.  
His lips pulled back, displaying the teeth, the expression on Heero Yuy's face could have been mistaken for a grin. It was, however, a vicious growl. The Japanese man pumped his legs hard, not even a trace of sweat visible on his face.  
A bullet smashed into the ground directly in Yuy's way, causing him to stumble.  
With only a meter between him his destination, Heero leapt, soaring gracefully through the air, his gun hand extended, the gun spitting both fire and bullets.  
Claire Luck gasped painfully as a pair of bullets impacted solidly with her abdomen, sending her sprawling.  
Quatre groaned, his head lolling to the side. His eyes widened, as the scarlet red poured from his wife's stomach.  
"God no." muttered Winner, attempting to crawl to his wife's side.  
A bullet whined over his head, causing him to drop back to the ground.  
His hand found the wooden grip of the Beretta Bobcat, and, with his remaining strength, pulled it from his holster, aiming clumsily at the figure.  
A black dirt bike exploded from the trees, as Quatre weakly pulled the trigger, the .32 caliber bullets whining off the metal frame of the bike.  
As if in slow motion, the assassin glanced coldly at the blonde man, his brown hair flapping in the wind. The cold, deadly eyes boring deep into his soul, as his well-framed figure flew through the air, straddled on the vehicle.  
And then, the moment vanished, as the killer sped away into the distance.  
And as the blissfulness of unconsciousness began to take over Quatre Raberba Winner, four words tumbled dizzily from Winner's mouth, as his head hit the ground, his eyes, blinking.  
Both fists tightened, as blood from his head wound poured over the road.  
"I will kill you."  
  
2001:  
  
Chang WuFei glanced over the simple concrete railing of his New York home.  
Five stories sat below him, as the people below moved like ants doing their business.  
Sniffing the air, WuFei frowned, and shook his head. New York definitely wasn't his favorite city.  
A wind swept through, chilling Chang's upper-body.  
With that, the Chinese man turned on his heels, and walked briskly back into the nearly barren apartment.  
In the corner, was a bed, and beside it, was a rack full of ancient oriental weapons, from a pair of Chinese Butterfly Swords, to a Guan Dao, to a Japanese Katana. A puffy chair sat on the other side of the room, a small 15-inch TV located directly in front of it, on a simple wooden table. A large pile of books lay beside that chair. Finally, there was the washroom, and the closet.  
Definitely not what you'd expect in a home of a highly infamous Chinese gangster. WuFei grinned, as he sauntered lazily towards the weapons rack, his hand gripping a single broadsword. It was his favorite weapon. A simple yet deadly weapon.  
Walking to a center of the room, Chang lowered himself into a deep horsestance, and began twirling the sword absent-mindedly. It wasn't a norm, but at the age of 25, WuFei was beginning to get restless.   
An irritant fly flew through the open window, buzzing around the room.  
WuFei glanced at the bug, and, with a sigh, shook his head, and began slicing the air with the blade.  
The fly neared, and, with sudden quickness, WuFei tossed the sword up into the air, his hand darting forward, gripping the fly gently between his two fingers.  
The fly buzzed helplessly between his fingers, as, with his free hand, Chang caught the sword.  
Striding gracefully towards the window, WuFei set the bug down on the windowsill, speaking quietly as he did so.  
"Next time, I won't be so merciful."   
The incessant ringing of his cell phone caught the gangster's attention, as the fly buzzed away.  
"What is it now?" muttered WuFei, digging the phone from his pocket.  
Flipping it open, Chang merely pressed it against his ear, to the rapid, high-pitched voice of his friend, Cheung FanGau.  
The annoyed look on his face was suddenly replaced with worry, as he lowered the phone. Flipping it shut, WuFei set it down, walking briskly to the door, pulling on a black, woolen jacket as he did so.  
His boss, Lam LoWei, had just been found dead, along with 12 of his guards. All seemingly killed with bare-hands.  
  
"Hey! You punk! Get your ass back here!"  
Duo Maxwell cursed the heavy SWAT gear on his back, as his legs pumped hard, propelling him after the male criminal.  
37, Hispanic, male…and homosexual, was what Maxwell had been told about the criminal.   
"Queer bitch." Muttered Maxwell, as he dashed through the alley, easily closing the gap between him and the gay gunrunner.  
The Heckler & Koch MP5A3 swung in his arms, as they moved in sync with his legs.  
"Fuck!" filled the empty alley, as the out-of-breath criminal swung around, gasping for breath, as the chrome Beretta 92 shook in his pudgy, sweaty hands.  
With lightening-fast reflexes, Maxwell dove to the ground as a 90-grain bullet sped overtop.  
"Now c'mon here." Called out the NYPD cop as he dove around a corner. "Just give it up!"  
"Never!" Yelled the gunrunner, as another two bullets imbedded themselves in the ground.  
"Ah crap," muttered Duo, frowning. "I wish I could just pump up his semen-filled ass with bullets."  
Hesitating, the SWAT member finally yelled out "I'll make you a deal."   
"No deals!"  
"Even if it involves having sweet, hot, horny sex with me?"  
A moment of silence filled the alley.  
"You…you'd do that?" Asked the Hispanic man, straightening from his lowered shooting stance, the gun-arm falling down to his side.  
"Well…" said Maxwell, tensing up. "No."  
The cop shot from his cover, charging the criminal.  
A shrill, high-pitched scream filled the alley, as the criminal quickly back-pedaled, attempting to bring his own weapon back into play.  
As the Beretta began it's ascent, Maxwell, flew through the air, his shoulder impacting with the Hispanic's chest, sending him sprawling. The pistol fell from his grips, clattering noisily on the concrete. With a sound halfway between a helpless sob, and a police siren, the gunrunner, smashed into the ground.  
"Idiot." Muttered Duo, as he closed in on the gay man. A hand gripped the criminal's shirt, and he roughly flipped him onto his stomach, putting his hands in cuffs.  
"You have the right to remain silent. Actually, if you don't remain silent, I'm gonna kick your fatass. You understand me you freak? So SHUT THE HELL UP!"  
A snickering intermingled with some sarcastic laughing brought Maxwell spinning around.  
"They should really replace that damn Miranda crap with the Duo rights."  
A large black man stood in the shadows, his chocolate-colored skin melding in almost perfectly with the darkness.  
"Yeah, you're right. Ruby, ma' man, we should definitely take this idea to the courts."  
Chuckling ensued, as both men shared some hearty laughter.  
"When you two stop laughing like friggin' maniacs, why don't you haul this queer prick down to police headquarters?"  
Both men spun, surprised, to the source of the voice.  
An old, rugged man leaned coolly against the brick wall, his own Beretta 92F holstered in clear view.  
"Sure thing, Lieutenant." Spoke Duo, the grin still evident on his face. "It's just, I think Rubi…Officer Carter, should maybe take hold of him. I mean, I think the guy has something for me. I offered to have sex with him, and he agreed!"  
Lieutenant Jon Taylor fought hard to keep the grin off his face, as he turned away. The humor was still quite evident, even in his gruff, rough voice.  
"Just figure out something."  
Grinning at his superior, Duo turned back towards his friend.   
"You heard him, Ruby, you have to haul him off."  
"What?! He did not say that!"  
Jogging towards the squad cars, Maxwell craned his neck back.  
"Well, you have to now!"  
"Asshole." Muttered Carter, a mock growl filling his face. Roughly grabbing the overweight criminal, Carter hauled the gay man towards the squad cars, after his friend.  
"Another day in the life of the illustrious Officer Rubin Carter, and his idiotic screw-up bitch-ass whore-lovin' partner, Duo Maxwell." Muttered the black giant, heading towards the cars.  
  
Duo Maxwell grimaced, as he pushed up the 300 pounds clamped solidly in his hands.  
"C'mon, you weak-ass white boy." Rubin Carter urged from above him.  
"Fuck…you." Muttered Maxwell weakly, attempting to bench the 300-pounds above him.  
With a desperate scream, Duo pushed, hard, finally bringing up the 300 pounds.  
"Yes!"   
Sitting up tiredly, Maxwell glanced around the gym, waving happily at the many cops who were openly staring at Duo, and his scream.  
"You must feel…" Rubin Carter's snide remark was cut off, as a scream filled the station.  
Frowning, Duo reached quickly into his gym bag, pulling out a Glock 23, and an extra clip.  
Grimly chambering the round, Maxwell glanced over at his partner, a Glock 17 held in his hands.  
"Let's do it."  
Duo and Rubin burst from the gym door, their badges clipped onto their shirts.  
A crowd of cops had gathered around the chief's office, and that was where the two SWAT members headed to.  
"What's happening?" Carter asked a nearby policeman.  
"The…the chief. He's dead!" answered the bewildered policeman.  
"Dead?! How?" demanded Maxwell.  
"She…Detective Glover, found him in his office, strangled.  
"Jesus." Muttered Maxwell.  
Carter leaned heavily against a nearby desk, his head drooping low. This chief had been a good one. Friendly, great to all the cops under him.   
A lone oriental man dressed in black slacks, and a dark green muscle shirt suddenly caught Rubin's attention. His hair was dark brown, and the eyes. He had the eyes of a killer.   
There was something about the guy,  
The warning bells were clanging in Carter's head, as he walked briskly to the man, his weapon now primed and ready to fire.  
"Hey, you!" Called out the NYPD cop, jogging quickly to the Oriental man. But he didn't acknowledge Carter's existence, as he headed towards the door.  
Frowning, Maxwell followed his friend, the Glock 23 angled loosely towards the Oriental.  
"Stop right there!" Demanded Carter, placing a firm hand on the man's shoulder.  
With quickness that no normal human could possess, the Oriental man spun around, grasping hold of Carter's arm, and twisting it roughly, easily snapping it.  
Rubin Carter was 6'3 and 230 pounds of rock-hard muscle, so it came as a surprise to everybody when the small 5'9 150 pound man picked up the cop, and easily threw him across the room.  
"Holy crap!" The Glock 23 in Maxwell's hands exploded, but the Oriental man moved with extreme quickness, narrowly avoiding the bullet.  
  
Heero Yuy moved quickly to the side, a slight frown breaking through his cold, expressionless demeanor as the bullet grazed his thigh.  
From a small shoulder bag came a Walther P99, which spit out a pair of 9mm bullets.  
The long, brown-haired cop ducked down behind a desk, as the other dozen cops spun around in surprise.  
This mission had already gone to hell.  
Yuy triggered the weapon as quickly as he could, emptying the clip in under eight seconds, as seven cops fell to the onslaught.  
Both the black cop, and the longhaired one came up firing, a duet of .40 S&W and 9mm bullets zeroing in on Heero.  
Diving to the ground, the assassin tucked into a tight ball, rolling on the ground, as more than a few dozen bullets sped overtop.  
The bulletproof glass behind Yuy cracked, as the bullets smashed into the doorway, sending many pedestrians scurrying for cover.  
Quickly reloading, Heero palmed a fragmentation grenade, peeking around the corner as he did so.  
The remaining cops had now joined in on the fight, as over half-a-dozen different guns fired in Yuy's general direction.  
Setting the pistol down, Heero roughly pulled the pin, and gently tossed the grenade in the direction.  
As the assassin ducked back into cover, another grenade now in his other hand, a panicked voice suddenly sounded. "Grenade!"  
The explosion was amazing, and inferno filled the station for a few seconds. But it seemed like an eternity.  
As the explosion died down, Heero again pulled the pin, tossing it around the corner. This would get the rest for sure.  
  
Duo Maxwell cursed as the explosion died down. A bouncing sound reached Duo's ears, but he shook it off.   
Just my imagination. Thought the cop. Just my imagination.  
A pair of officers peeked from their cover, weapons held at the ready. Another half-dozen followed this. Among them, was Rubin Carter. But something wasn't right. Something just wasn't right, and Duo opted to stay behind cover.  
So, because of his caution, Maxwell wasn't all that surprised when a second explosion sounded.  
A loud ringing filled his ears, as Maxwell curled into a tight ball, the shrapnel ripping through the air above him, and into his friends, killing all of them.  
The second explosion finally died down, and Duo peeked from his arms.  
The worry that should have been there, was replaced by anger. Deep, dark anger.  
Blood, skin, and bone was strewn around the station, and he know, among them, was the blood, skin, and bone of Rubin Carter. His friend. His partner. His brother in blue.  
"fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!"  
With a scream of anger, Duo burst from his cover, the Glock 23 already firing.  
Blood flowed freely from his face, and scarlet red filled his vision as he continued firing.  
The Oriental man rushed for the door, and he spun around, the Walther P99 outstretched.   
For what seemed like an eternity, their eyes met, and they connected  
Cold, expressionless eyes met with deep, soulful, humorous ones.   
And then, in an instant, that reverie was broken, and both men fired. Both men missed. And while one rushed out the door, the other continued firing, screaming with rage as the killer burst out the door, and into the night.  
  
Agent Trowa Barton stared stonily at the screen before him, his eyes traveling over the information.  
"A Triad leader murdered, his 12 guards all found dead, all killed with bare-hands. The Chief of Police found murdered, 19 cops killed, 4 injured, 1 has gone AWOL, apparently on a vigilante mission." Muttered Barton to himself. "And all this in the past week."  
Sitting back, the agent shut off the screen, massaging his temple.  
There was something else to this. Besides for a highly trained assassin easily taking out dozens of important people, there was something big going on.  
Both men had been stalked by a mysterious man, only days before they were killed. Somehow, he knew. Something big was going on. He just knew it.  
Agent Trowa Barton would have to find out what that was.  
  
  
  
To be continued… 


	2. Chapter 2

The smell of decaying flesh and dried blood filled Chang WuFei's nose, as he slowly opened the door to the luxurious condo.   
Four bodies lay, strewn across the floor, untouched.   
The Triads had probably paid a hefty bribe, along with a few threats to keep the scene as it was, and not trampled by police.  
Strolling to the first body, one with both arms hanging on by only a strip of skin. He kneeled down, pulling on a pair of latex gloves. Rolling it over, WuFei's eyes narrowed in anger.  
This was the body of Gavin Au. An 18-year-old boy with a girlfriend, and a scholarship to Harvard. A gangster father had put him in the Triads. WuFei had always felt sorry for the boy, and the hardships he would have to face with the Triads looking over his shoulders. His eyes were opened wide in shock, and a pathetic, old .38 caliber revolver lay a few inches from his arm.   
"But now," muttered Chang through clenched teeth "He has no shoulder to look over."  
Gently closing his eyes of the dead boy, WuFei stood up.  
A nearby body lay, spread-eagled , a long shard of glass sticking from its abdomen.  
Chang WuFei had been a Triad enforcer for the past two years, a military policeman before that. He had seen his share of death, but seeing four men, murdered, massacred in a room altogether was almost unbearable.  
With a clenched jaw, Chang made his way slowly towards the second body.  
Even with look of pure horror, rage, and pain mixed into one, WuFei still recognized the face. It was an old man, who had been a servant in the house. A kind one, at that. He had often been seen outside, feeding the annoying birds that flapped up and down, leaving their excrements everywhere. Or gently taking bugs from the house, and setting them outside, where they could be free again.  
With a grim face, WuFei looked to the ancient dagger clutched in his hands.  
"The protector until the end." Remarked Chang coldly.  
The knuckles of the Chinese gangster were now milky white, the blue veins showing clearly.  
The other two bodies in the room had been good friends, training partners in Kung Fu. Both had had their ribs broken, and their necks crushed.  
Forcing his emotions down, WuFei continued on the tour of death around the house, inspecting each and every body.  
The emotions suddenly burst out when he saw the body of Lam LoWei, the Triad leader.  
His lips pulled back to reveal a vicious snarl, and for a few seconds, he stood, motionless, staring at the body of his former friend and boss.  
Finally, his face again impassive, he knelt by the body of Lam. His knuckles showed signs of a fight, and the wooden Tonfa indicated that their had definitely been one.  
"At least, old friend, you died fighting, and not on a deathbed." Muttered Chang in his native tongue, Mandarin.  
Standing up, the Chinese gangster leaned heavily against the nearby, oaken dresser.  
All had been more or less killed with bare hands, save for the old servant, who had had a piece of glass shoved up his stomach.  
There were three people, alive, that he knew could do this. Himself, an old friend who he had met during a shooting seminar by the name of Trowa Barton, and…  
"Have you found anything?" A man stood, his face sheathed in the shadows. Even with the 'mask', Chang still recognized the voice.  
"Well, if it isn't Agent Trowa Barton of the HUMINT division in the CIA. Last I heard, you were in Pakistani, gathering some Intel on a local warlord."  
A frown filled Barton's face, as he stepped from the shadows.  
"You're not supposed to know that."  
With a shrug, WuFei stood up, the smile at seeing his old friend beginning to vanish.  
"I just wish we had met under better circumstances."  
"As do I." Said Trowa, a sympathetic look on his face.  
The two men glared in silence at the floor, thoughts filling their minds.  
"All were killed with bare hands."   
"All except one, and he was killed with a piece of glass shrapnel."  
"That would have taken some skill. The only ones I know of who possess such skill, is you, maybe me, and…you remember Yuy?"  
WuFei's face flushed red with anger and shame at the memory.  
"Oh yeah," He muttered quietly "I remember Yuy."  
  
1992:  
  
A bead of sweat began to form on Chang WuFei's brow, as a long series of chain punches shot through the air, impacting solidly with the heavy, leather punching bag.  
An elderly man stood at the other end of the bag, easily holding the bag still.  
From his expression, one could gather that Chang was weak. Nothing could be more untrue. If a man less powerful than Sifu was holding the bag, he, along with the bag itself, would be sent flying across the room.  
"Alright, you can stop." Commanded Sifu, as his own arms fell to the side.  
The Chinese boy straightened, ignoring the bead of sweat falling from his forehead.  
With an aura of power, the old man strolled towards his protégé, clamping him solidly on the shoulder.  
"This is an important exhibition, WuFei. I have just found out that your opponent is a Japanese boy named Yuy. His first name is unknown. It is just known that he is a great fighter. Be cautious with him, but do not hesitate to strike the finishing blow if you get even the smallest opening."  
"Yes Sifu." Said WuFei simply, his right hand making the fist, flying into the open palm of his left hand. And as he bowed, WuFei rolled his eyes. This would be a piece of cake.  
As Sifu returned the action, he spoke again.  
"I know what you're thinking, WuFei. That this will be easy. But I've seen this boy fight. He's good. Very good. As I said, be careful."  
Frowning, WuFei slowly shook his head. If Sifu was this worried about him, then he had to be good.  
"Well, since I see you're beginning to agree with me," Spoke the old man, as he jollily clapped Chang on the shoulder "Good luck!"  
"Thank you, Sifu." Said WuFei, a smile breaking through his expressionless face.  
A loud bell rang, and both teacher and student spun to the noise.  
"It's time."  
Both fighters walked forward proudly, their backs straight.  
A bright light flooded into their eyes, as a transparent dome stood in the center of the stadium.  
"That is where you will be fighting."  
Nodding, WuFei simply slid a mouthpiece into his mouth, and strolled towards the dome.  
His opponent already stood waiting, not even a sign of nervousness showing.   
It wasn't arrogance, but still, no sign of nervousness.   
Frowning, WuFei quickly shook his worries away. Bad thoughts on your mind was not a good thing during a fight.  
A gong sounded, and Yuy quickly got into a hard Karate stance. With a raised eyebrow, WuFei quickly got into his own favored stance. One that more resembled Western Boxing than any Eastern Arts.  
The gong sounded a second time, and both boys rushed forward.   
The hard, external stance was a deep contrast to the way Yuy moved, as he flowed gracefully across the ground.  
As Yuy neared, Chang quickly pivoted on the ball of his foot, and brought his other leg around in a powerful sidekick.  
With ease, Yuy dodged the kick, and reacted in a lower, Thai kick.  
Narrowing his eyes, WuFei decided to meet force with force.  
Pivoting yet again, Chang brought his other leg around, and grimaced as shin met shin, the sound echoing across the dome.  
The audiences groaned in what they imagined to be great pain, and gasped as the two fought on.  
Yuy's fist shot forward in a quick jab, and WuFei hopped to the side, deflecting the strike to the side, as he swung his leg around in his own round-house kick.  
Showing amazing acrobatic skill, Yuy jumped over the leg, his rear foot coming around in yet another kick.  
This time, Chang couldn't avoid it, and the mouthpiece flew from his mouth, coated in spit and blood, as WuFei's head snapped to the side, sending the boy staggering away.  
As Yuy coldly neared, ready for another attack, WuFei swung around in a sloppy hook, which was easily dodged by Yuy. But it had been a feint, and with amazing quickness, WuFei brought his knee up, smashing Yuy in the mouth.  
As the Japanese boy's head snapped back up, Chang stepped in, firing a nasty straight punch into Yuy's chin. As the Japanese boy stumbled back, WuFei leapt up, bringing his knee into Yuy's face, and as the Chinese fighter began his descent, WuFei brought his arm down roughly onto the crown of Yuy's head, sending him onto his knees.  
With a grin, Chang skipped backwards, then rushed forward, intent on making the finishing blow flashy.  
Suddenly, the Japanese boy flipped back onto his feet, and in mid-flight, WuFei never even got the chance to dodge Yuy's deadly knife-hand that struck him solidly on the chin.  
The blow sent WuFei tumbling down onto the ground, unceremoniously crashing down.  
The crowd stood, not one man, woman, or child still in his seat, as exactly 650,051 people stood, open-mouthed at the spectacle before them. In a mere second, the Japanese boy Yuy had turned the tables with ease.  
As the Chinese boy struggled to regain his footing, a sudden blow finally sent Chang WuFei into unconsciousness.   
  
2001:  
  
The color of blue veins added nicely to the flushed face of WuFei, as he remembered each and every one of his mistakes.   
That had been his first fight, and his only loss since.  
"You think it's him?" Asked Trowa, purposely ignoring the flushed face of his friend.  
Forcing his face back into its original color, WuFei answered with uncertainty laced in his voice.  
"I don't know. I mean, he had the skill, but I just don't know about him making the deaths this gory. When I fought him, every move he attempted was either one that was meant to be a finishing move, or one meant to be followed up by one. This just seems too gory."  
"Granted," Said Trowa with a nod "I've checked around the mercenary circles, and Yuy's name came up high and clear. He goes by different names, but he's still recognizable. And he's our only lead."  
"Our?" asked WuFei with a raised eyebrow. "You know I prefer working alone."  
"Well," said Trowa nonchalantly "When the stakes are this high, your preferences can go to hell."  
  
Duo Maxwell stalked angrily through the streets of Chinatown, his hand closed firmly around the plastic grip of his Glock 23.  
While the face was cold and expressionless, the eyes held a maniacal glint. One that was just hoping for a few punks to step out of the shadows to give him an excuse to kill something.  
Maxwell quickly rounded the corner, bumping into a young mother. Usually, the cop would have apologized profusely, but now, he only turned around, giving the mother the finger.  
Finally, he stopped in front of a classy joint. A bar. 'Bottoms Up' was written in large, neon letters, and below it, stood a pair of well-muscled bouncers.  
"Get the fuck out of my way." Growled Maxwell.  
The bouncers stood steadfast, their hands nearing the walkie-talkies.  
"Ah, screw this." Muttered Duo. Stepping up to the first bouncer, he brought his fist around in a nasty roundhouse punch, which KO'ed the man instantly.  
As the second guard neared Maxwell, the cop quickly un-leathered the Glock, shoving it in the bouncer's face.  
"Mind your own fucking business." He muttered, as he whipped the barrel across the bouncer's face.  
Busting open the door, Maxwell headed towards the bartender, ignoring the busty blonde that was offering her services for the night.  
"C'mon mister," she spoke perkily, rubbing herself between the legs. "I do everything from strip poker to gang three ways. I mean, I can get some of my bi friends…"  
"Shut…up." Growled Duo, as he spun angrily around. "If you don't, that I'll give you three ways. Three ways that bullets can enter your body!"  
A look of fright came over the stripper's face, as she scurried away.  
Leaning against the steel railing, Duo groaned, looking down.  
"Christ," He muttered, tightening his grip on the railing. "In a few hours, I've become a pathetic maniac with kicking the crap out of everybody on my mind."  
But the explosion, the gunfire, the scared screams of his colleagues, and those damn eyes of the assassin replayed itself. Over and over and over.  
"Shit." Muttered Duo "Shit!"  
Finally, he came to the bartender, instantly speaking with a demanding voice.  
"Gimme access to the real bar."  
A slight look of fear came over the bartender's face. Duo's situation wasn't a secret. That was for sure.  
"What…what you do if I don't?" asked the bartender in a quavering voice. "I hear on news. You go AWOL. You no longer cop."  
With a mock, psychotic smile, Duo quickly took hold of the bartender's shirt, pulling him until they were a mere inch from each other's face.  
"I'll tell you what. Some of your little customers here will be going…A…W…O…L…from your bar. AFTER I SHOOT THEM!" Screamed Duo, a vicious snarl now on his face.  
A squeal of fright sounded from the bartender, and he quickly dug through te drawers, shoving a ticket into Duo's hands.  
A cold look bore into the bartender, as Duo spun on his heels, heading towards a pair of guards.  
Shoving the ticket in their hands, he gave a sigh of annoyance as a small, black bag was shoved over his head.  
For exactly three minutes, Duo was led along, until he came to a door, and the sack was pulled from his face.  
The door was kicked open, and Duo was shoved inside.  
A pair of girls, no older than 15, danced, dressed in only shoes. A quick glance, and Duo spun away, observing the illegal strip bar.  
There was something unique about the bar. Not about its appearance, or its occupants, but the fact that it was still standing. The bar was well known in New York, even among the NYPD cops. But no bribes were given, no threats were fired out. This strip bar was one of the most valuable places for information. Moles and Informants not only traveled here a lot, but anyone who was waiting to sell out some information or tidbits knew where to go. This bar.  
Among the policemen of New York City, however, only a few knew of this place. A few who could be trusted by the scum of the city. Not necessarily dirty cops, but ones who would keep their word, and not bring down the bar.  
So, in exchange for some of the worst killers, robbers, rapists, and criminals in general of this town, the illegal strip bar that housed under-aged whores was left standing.  
"Talk about the lesser evil." Muttered Duo with disgust, as he sauntered through the bar.  
Duo Maxwell was a well-known cop among these men. The moles and informants. Usually, there would be some smart-ass remarks spewing from the mouths of these scum, but now, there was none.  
Maxwell had earned the nickname 'Death' early on in his career. He had nearly been suspended from the force because of that. It was during a raid on a barren apartment building, that half-a-dozen SWAT members had been shot, including his first partner. A young man named Otto.  
Watching seven of his friends murdered had carried a similar effect to watching 19 of his friends murdered. He had gotten really pissed.  
The only surviving criminal had described Duo as 'The God of Death himself' before he passed out due to shock.  
Later on, the reports diagnosed Maxwell with 'Temporary Insanity'. He had rushed from cover, a scream sounding through the building, the Glock 23 in one hand, and Otto's Colt 1911 in the other. After bursting into the room, 20 shots had been fired. All from Duo's weapons. 10 men had fallen that day.  
"Two bullets for each." Duo had muttered coldly, his eyes utterly devoid of any humor. And that had happened. Each man had received a deadly double-tap from the likes of the God of Death himself.  
And now, Duo Maxwell's eyes carried that same haunted, angry, maniacal look. And all the drinkers who looked at him knew. Knew that men would fall before the night was over, just like that night, exactly Four years, and two hours ago.  
  
"Three years." Murmured Quatre Raberba Winner, pointedly ignoring the strip show beside him. "Three years."  
Staring into space, he unconsciously patted the small Sig-Sauer P239 that lay, holstered in his pocket. It was a small weapon that packed a powerful punch. After that very day, three years ago, Winner had thrown the Beretta in a small wooden box, stowing it away under a pile of junk.  
"The round's not powerful enough." Quatre had hopelessly said.  
But he knew, deep down, that the only reason he had thrown it away, was because it reminded him too much of his wife, and his own mistake of letting her die.  
Seven round of .357 Sig. Thought Quatre absentmindedly. More than enough to blow off someone's head…or my own.  
His hand sub-consciously closed around the bottle of beer that sat to the side of him. But he resisted the urge.  
"I'm on the job right now." He told himself firmly.  
With that, he gazed into the dark glass. A rugged, handsome, yet haunted, angry man stared back out, and he just couldn't look anymore.  
He had changed. The Quatre Raberba Winner that sat in a seedy, illegal strip bar was a deep contrast to the sensitive, caring, happy Quatre Raberba Winner that had been the heir to the Winner throne. The family legacy.  
Quatre barely felt anything anymore. Not even the hate that had driven him for the first few months. Not even that. Quatre just felt…empty.  
With a deep sigh, Winner's hand left the bottle, and rested on his knees.  
He had planned to come to this club for information, but had ended up sitting motionless at a table in the corner, reflecting his own, pathetic life.  
The door suddenly burst open, and a well-built man was thrown in.  
A ponytail hung loosely, and with a quick glance at the dancers, he stalked his way around the bar.  
He's heading in my direction. Thought Quatre with a frown as he observed the angry, rage-filled eyes.  
Narrowing his own eyes, Quatre sat straight up, as he finally recognized the face.  
'Officer Duo Maxwell.' Thought Winner. 'Christ, he's been all over the news. The vigilante cop that's been wrecking havoc for his 19 slain friends.'  
Quatre's brow furrowed into an even deeper frown. His contacts in the police force had said that a Japanese man matching Quatre's own description had massacred the many cops.  
Leaning in, Winner listened intently.  
"Oriental, about this tall, well-built. You know him?" Asked Maxwell irritatingly.  
"I don't know what you're talking about. But some green might help." Said Hugh, a seedy, skinny man who was infamous for his own contacts.  
"Green?! You want green? I'll show you green!" yelled Duo, as he quickly pulled out a Glock 23, along with a green marker.  
"I'll color this goddamn gun green. Is that green enough for you?"  
Quatre frowned as he observed the confrontation. Maxwell was acting more like a raving, psychotic lunatic out to kill some people, rather than a vigilante lawman who was out for justice.  
"Oh c'mon Duo." Said Hugh weakly, the arrogance now gone from both his face and voice.  
"Answer my question." Growled Duo, a snarl clearly evident on his face.  
"I…I swear. I mean, I know hundreds of guys matching your description." Squeaked the informant in fright.  
This was the opening for his entrance, and with a slight grin, Quatre stood up, and nonchalantly strolled towards the two.  
"Would this help?" Asked Winner, his voice loud and clear as he tossed a scrap of paper onto the desk.  
With a frown, Duo caught the paper, quickly unfolding it. The frown was replaced with surprise, as the sketched face of the cop killer, the one who had murdered not only 19 of his colleagues, but his own brother in blue, stared back at him.  
Quick as lightening, Duo roughly grabbed Quatre on the collar of his vest, hefting the blonde man a good inch off the ground.  
"What do you now about him?"   
Barely fazed, Quatre coldly stared Duo back in the eyes.  
"He killed my wife. Three years ago."  
He didn't know what it was, but Duo Maxwell believed the blonde man in his grasps, and he gently set him down.  
"Um…guys?" came a quiet, frightful voice.  
Both men turned silently to the informant, staring angrily at him.  
"I…I think I know who this is. A guy named Jason Yamasaki. He's a hitman. Freelance. At least, I think he's freelance. But no one knows for sure. Yamasaki's not his real name, either. I've seen him before. A few months ago. He was calling himself Hioto Hideno back then."  
Silence ensued for a few seconds, and those few seconds felt like an eternity for Hugh the informant.  
"Where's he staying?" asked Quatre quietly.   
"A…a condo. I know the address. I'll write it down."  
"You do that." Muttered Quatre.  
Three years. After three years, it would finally end.  
  
Side-by-side, Chang WuFei and Trowa Barton strolled across the sidewalk. One, a proud, Chinese warrior and an infamous member of the Triad. The other, a well-known agent of the CIA. The most unlikely of friends.  
"Where's your car?" Asked WuFei quietly, gazing at a group of children playing along the street.  
"A few blocks up." Answered Trowa, his eyes on the same thing.  
Maybe it was something about the innocence of the children, but they drew the two warriors like magnets.  
Prying his eyes from them, WuFei continued on the walk, turning a corner, away from the children.  
It was then that, with a noisy screech, a large, black van pulled to a stop in front of them.  
Spinning around in surprise, Chang and Barton glanced in worry as five men, all dressed in black, piled out of the car, weapons already in their hands.  
"Shit!" muttered Trowa, as he dove to the ground, his hand entering the inside of his jacket, and closing around the grip of his Desert Eagle .50 Caliber pistol.  
As his friend dove for safety, Chang WuFei rushed forward, his legs carrying him in almost super-human speed.  
As the Chinese warrior neared, he threw himself in the air, one leg upraised, ready to drop onto the head of an enemy in an instant.  
But instead of dropping the leg, WuFei quickly reached to his ankle, pulling a Para-Ordanance P10 from the holster.  
As the first man, a blonde beach stud with spiky hair raised his USAS12 shotgun, WuFei twisted in the air, finally bringing the leg down.  
The sole of his foot impacted solidly with the attacker's forehead, sending him flying backwards into the car, the crack echoed through the day.  
As the second attacker brought his own MP5 to bear, Trowa took target acquisition with the Desert Eagle, swiftly pulling the trigger.  
The .50 caliber is one of the most powerful rounds in the world, often used for big game like bear. For a frail thing like a human…  
The large bullet smashed into the attacker's arm, not only breaking it, but blowing it right off.  
Chang barely flinched as his opponent screamed in pain, the bone, skin, and blood of the arm splattering all over him.  
Quickly, WuFei brought his leg around, kicking the man in the neck. Even as the armless man fell to the ground, dead, WuFei was already diving out of the way, as the remaining three fired their weapons simultaneously.  
As his friend escaped the path of the deadly bullets, Trowa quickly triggered the Desert Eagle, grimly smiling as he watched WuFei pull a second P10 from his second ankle.  
All three men fell to the deadly hailstorm of bullets, and as the tires squealed, indicating its escape, Trowa quickly pulled the trigger one last time, the .50 caliber bullet smashing into the tire, blowing it right off.  
A desperate scream sounded, and the door was flung open, as a large Asian man rushed out, a Heckler & Koch USP9 spewing 124-grain death.  
With lightening reflexes, WuFei fired a shot, and watched grimly as the pistol fell from the driver's hand, clattering on the concrete, followed by the driver himself, groaning as he writhed in pain.  
Trowa rushed to his side, the Desert Eagle reloaded once again.  
"A gut shot." He observed coldly. "We can definitely use this to our advantage."  
Walking slowly to the driver's side, he slowly observed the wound.  
"Who sent you?" He asked coldly.  
The driver's jaws clenched in determination.  
"I…will never…tell." He answered weakly.  
"Does this shot hurt?" Asked WuFei quietly.  
Puzzled, the driver merely nodded.  
"We can end it. A mercy bullet. The pain will end."  
Tears now openly streamed down his face, as he hopelessly clutched the wound, sobbing in pain.  
"Alright…I'll tell you."  
And for the next few seconds, the two men listened quietly as he told of Jason Yamasaki, and the condo.  
When it was all done, WuFei simply nodded to Trowa, who chambered a round, and slowly lined up the sights.  
"Rest in peace."  
WuFei flinched slightly as he walked away, the massive explosion easily reaching his ears.  
"So, Jason Yamasaki." Muttered Chang, as a sickening thud sounded behind him. "I will reap vengeance. For my fallen comrades, my slain master, and the many others you have murdered, massacred, and killed."  
  
  
  
  
To be continued…  



End file.
